


Artemisia Absinthium

by Dawn_Blossom



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Angst, Hanahaki AU, I hate angst and I hate myself for writing this but, M/M, frankly if anyone has ever deserved to die from hanahaki disease it's Grima
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 08:18:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15408825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawn_Blossom/pseuds/Dawn_Blossom
Summary: “Hanahaki disease,” the girl before him whispers. “Impossible…”“Is it?” Grima asks, laughing even as it makes the pressure in his lungs worse. “You know… The human I used to be… loved your father…”





	Artemisia Absinthium

**Author's Note:**

> WHEN I SAID BEFORE THAT I WANTED TO WRITE ALL THE TROPES FOR CHROM/GRIMA I DIDN'T MEAN *THIS* ONE
> 
> I don't??? even like??? hanahaki aus??? (except for the one time I wrote one where it was just like a mild allergy; that was a comedy though so it was fine)
> 
> But there I was, just minding my own business, scrolling through twitter and reading about someone else's upbeat twist on the concept, and then... I was struck by an image: Grima, choking to death on love that is only unrequited because he murdered the object of it. I swear my reaction was visceral. If I had any art skills at all, it would have made a poignant picture... but unfortunately I draw like a 5 year old, so I had to try to write out the idea instead.
> 
> I also apparently have a thing for flower symbolism (seriously this is like the 4th fic I've written that involves it... first time I've done it for this fandom, though). I ended up choosing wormwood because it represents absence/bitter sorrow. And also, the flowers are not very beautiful. Can you imagine those things in your lungs? Gross.
> 
> Anyway, uh... I guess I hope you enjoy this fic? But please say a prayer that I never have to use the "Major Character Death" warning again.

It is the fate of the world to end, be it today by dragonfire or in five billion years by the expansion of the sun.

It is the fate of living things to die. Grima does not feel sorrow for the loss of insignificant creatures.. Humanity has brought ruin upon itself. He is not the cause of its downfall; he will only speed it along. But he is not deluded; he does not forget that he is just as worthless as the rest. He is a god because he has great power, not because he means anything to the inevitably decaying universe.

Still, when Grima imagined dying, he thought that it would be at the end of the world. After he had rendered the place hopeless and inhabitable even for him.

He thought… That was what he wanted.

But no, there’s something he wants even more. But it is impossible to have, and now it is killing him. Choking him, drowning him, _killing_ him.

He coughs, and a spray of pollen and yellow florets spew from his mouth like dragonbreath (though he no longer has the strength to call his dragon form). He wheezes as he struggles desperately to take in oxygen from his breath. His lungs are coated with hundreds of thousands of the blooms. All he feels anymore is bitterness, his mouth continuously filled with the taste of an absinthe that cannot even grant him a consolatory intoxication.

“Hanahaki disease,” the girl before him whispers. “Impossible…”

“Is it?” Grima asks, laughing even as it makes the pressure in his lungs worse. “You know… The human I used to be… loved your father…”

His chest burns as he admits it. He is ashamed to think of the time he spent with the Shepherds… as an amnesiac fleeing a troubled country, really? Ha, he was just too weak to deal with the truth! He had to deny who he was, to forget the millenia he had lived, to pretend to be human…

It would have been nice if “Robin” had been real. If Grima could have lived among the humans, been a part of them…

He really believed he was, once.

_”You’re one of us, Robin, and no ‘destiny’ can change that.”_

Chrom was so naive.

Grima really shouldn’t have killed him. He was loyal to “Robin;” he could have been loyal to Grima. It would have only taken a few words, surely. And then Grima could have had him forever. Grima would not be dying in this pitiful manner.

“You love him yet, or you would not be so afflicted!” Lucina cries. “You dare to love the man you murdered?”

She says it as though she thinks he has chosen this. Chosen to harbor his fated enemy in his heart. If Chrom had been of any other bloodline, perhaps Grima would have paused. Perhaps he would have made a decision he would have regretted less.

Another shower of petals falls at his feet as he goes into another coughing fit. He will not last another hour at this rate. The disease has gone on for far too long. There is no cure for it… save to be loved, which is simply not a remedy available to the fell dragon. 

_”Robin… I’m in love with you,” Chrom says, his face flushed._

_”Oh.” It is ineloquent, but Robin has no experience with this sort of thing, He cannot remember, but he is somehow sure that he has not heard these words before._

_”I have been from the very moment I first laid eyes on you. I just didn’t realize it until the last little bit,” Chrom says, his eyes softening ._

_Robin opens his mouth, but out comes only a breath. He is overwhelmed by a feeling more powerful than his body._

But Chrom loved his amnesiac tactician, not the fell dragon. And even then… Chrom may have loved his tactician, but he loved his country more. He married some woman his advisors picked and had a child, and though he always verbally professed his love for Robin, he didn’t seem to care too much that the man he called the sword at his side was spending less and less time there.

“He was my father!” Lucina shouts. “No love you feel for him could be stronger than a daughter’s love!”

Perhaps she is correct. Lucina’s love is pure and unspoiled. Her father was and is a hero to her. He exists in her as an ideal, as constant as she needs him to be. Her devotion will never waver.

But Grima’s love is richer, nuanced. He knew the true Chrom, saw Chrom in all his glory and all his folly. He could formulate an infinite list of things he despises about the man: his pride, his obliviousness, his black-and-white thinking, his obsequious adherence to his sister’s legacy … And yet Grima’s lungs are _still_ clogged with plant matter, his chest and throat and nose and eyes all constantly burning from the excessive amount of wormwood in his body. Is this not the “true love” that humans crave so desperately? If this love has survived this long, mustn’t it be everlasting?

“Simple… minded…” Grima coughs. “You are… your father’s child…”

In another life, perhaps he could have been as a father to her, too… Or a mentor, at least… He and Chrom together, raising this girl... (He gasps for air.) But this girl doesn’t know him, probably can’t even recognize him from being around the castle. He was too distant… Perhaps because he never truly belonged there.

“So… little princess…” he gasps. “Will you… avenge him now?”

Lucina stares at him. She carries her father’s sword, but it is not for this reason that Grima finds she resembles Chrom. It is the fire in her eyes, it is the way the mountain breeze ruffles her hair, it is the way her lips thin, it is everything about her…

“No,” She says. Her hand rests on her sword, but she does not raise it. It is an affront to him, a statement that he is not enough of a threat.

But then, truly, he is not. He is dying; this is the end for him. And she will live. The exalted princess will live.

“Then you... “ Grima coughs, and gasps, and coughs again. The wind catches the flowers, blowing them back into his face. He cannot stand the onslaught; in fact he simply cannot stand. He drops to ground as he grasps at his throat (as though clawing it out could save him now). “You will… watch.”

“I will watch,” Lucina agrees. “I will watch as my father avenges himself!”

Grima laughs. That’s a thought. Who would have guessed that the exalt could kill the fell dragon from beyond the grave. Yes, Chrom did this to him, just by existing… Just by making him feel...

But then, perhaps Grima did this to himself. Worthless as he is, as hypocritical and selfish and foolish as any other creature in existence… The truth is that no one forced him to do this. The world never needed him to destroy it; its end would (and someday will) come without his assistance. He should have cursed his memories away again. He should have lived a human life with Chrom, Lucina, everyone...

But though Chrom is the one and only life that Grima feels sorrow for taking, remorse will not burn away the flowers from his lungs. This is his own body attacking him. This is Grima killing himself.

He chokes out another laugh (flowers fall), hysterical now. He cannot breathe or speak; he is drowning in bitterness. He is drowning in sorrow.

He is drowning in love.

_”Are you as tired as me, Robin?” Chrom asks. “The days fly by so fast…”_

_It is late, though not terribly so. Robin’s body is not particularly fatigued, and yet…_

_“I feel like I’ve never truly rested,” he says. “We were headed off to war when I met you, and we’ve been fighting ever since… Sometimes I wonder if it ever actually ends.”_

_“It does,” Chrom says, placing a hand on Robin’s shoulder. “We are fighting so that the people of Ylisse may know peace. And you are one of those people, Robin; you are one of us. One day all the fighting will be over, and then… I swear to you, you will finally rest.”_

_“What if I’m just… bad at resting?” Robin asks. “Don’t give me that look; I’m dead serious! What if the war ends and I can’t settle down?”_

_“Then…” Chrom squeezes Robin’s shoulder. “I will find a way to show you how.”_

As Grima closes his eyes, he thinks, fondly, that Chrom was always an honest man.


End file.
